Breakfast at Denneez
by ardavenport
Summary: Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher had started a relationship, but are having some trouble adjusting to each other. Especially on a planet where Picard must act as a mediator for a trade dispute with Ferengi.
1. Chapter 1

**BREAKFAST AT DENNEEZ**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 1**

Doctor Beverly Crusher strolled down the long corridor, her medical tricorder secured in a pouch at her waist. She could hear faint sounds of movement, half-heard voices and water sounds, through the closed doors she passed. The deep red, padded floor and the baffles hanging from the ceiling muffled the tread.

She turned a corner and stopped at a wide door, exactly like all the other ones she had passed in the dimly lit corridor. The curly script on the door at her eye level identified it as the one she wanted.

She knocked, the hard plastic echoing hollowly. There was no door buzzer.

She knocked again.

This time she heard something, someone getting up. The door slid aside. Captain Jean-Luc Picard looked back at her. Behind him the room was dark. The wide window drapes blocked out the bright sun outside, and only one lamp was on in a corner by the bed.

"Did I wake you?" Crusher asked.

"No," Picard answered quickly, and then, "I was just resting."

Crusher stepped into the room. Picard touched a wall switch, turning on the overhead fixture by the door, which only slightly brightened the gloomy, cave-like lighting.

"I don't blame you. I don't know why they don't have humidity controls in these rooms, especially if this facility is supposed to accommodate non-Denneezians," she commented. The air was thick and heavy with moisture, warm and almost steamy. Both she and Picard had been sweating in it all morning. The indoor vents occasionally made a pseudo-breeze as they circulated the air, but that only gave them minimal relief. Neither of them had exerted themselves much, but they both felt drained and weary. She sat down on the wide square bed in the central room. The chairs had low-slung, cushioned hammock seats that were comfortable enough to sit in, but it was a ridiculous chore getting up out of them.

"Did you find anything?" Picard, still standing, asked his medical officer.

"Nothing," she declared. "No contaminants, no bacterial growth, no genetic mutations. Nothing. There is nothing at all wrong with Brahga's cargo."

Picard sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"How are the negotiations going?"

"They're not," he snapped. "Brahga keeps going on about how he's being cheated and Shan'Kaar is just stalling for time. I think he's hoping that Brahga will get fed up with it and leave with his half payment."

"Will he?"

"A Ferengi leave with only a half payment for his cargo? Not likely. Not with three of his ships in orbit." The captain sat down on the bed next to Crusher, his weight sinking deeply into the overly soft mattress.

"You don't think they'll do anything."

"Probably not, especially with the _Enterprise_ here. Brahga's threatening to destroy his cargo just out of spite. And personally I don't think that's such a bad idea."

"It would break Deanna's heart."

"If she wants to salvage that chocolate, it would help if she didn't let it distract her while I'm trying to straighten out this mess."

"It's not chocolate; it's genetic material for cocoa plants," Crusher corrected him. She turned toward him, folding one of her long legs up onto the bed, the movement momentarily jostling both of them.

"Well, Brahga brought chocolate to the meeting. Samples of the quality of his cargo. He knew it would be distracting. I never want to smell another gram of the stuff again. I thought Troi was going to faint. I sent her back to the ship."

"What?"

Picard turned to face her. "The more people that are in that room, the more chances that Shan'Kaar has to dissemble. Troi can't read Brahga anyway and it doesn't take an empath to see that Shan'Kaar is playing his own game. You don't have to stay here yourself if you've verified that the cargo is fine," he added.

"What about you?"

"I'm stuck here for a few days at least. The only thing Brahga and Shan'Kaar seem to agree on is that all parties in the mediation should be sequestered. It's some Denneezian formality," he grumbled.

"Well, when's the next session?"

Picard glanced back at the ornate, gilded timepiece imbedded in the wall over one of the bed's nightstands. Denneezian 'hours' were shorter than Starfleet standard and he paused over the mental calculation.

"Almost five hours. Lunch," he amended to her raised eyebrows.

"Lunch?"

"It's six, actually. I suppose it's too hot in the middle of the day for anybody to do anything, so they just all go to bed."

"Hmm." Crusher nodded. She lowered her eyes; her hand went to Picard's knee. "Almost five hours then." She nudged a little closer to him, and the soft bed caved in between them, making them slide together.

Picard stared down at her hand, stroking his leg, and then up at her. The quiet comfortable room was silent, except for the background of a gurgling fountain in the bathroom. He laid his own hand over her wandering fingers.

"Beverly, I don't think that this is the right place. And I'm not sure it would be wise, especially if our hosts need us for anything," he told her gently. They hadn't been sleeping together for very long, less than two months. They were still tripping over each other in the morning in his quarters, and occasionally her quarters. But they had been intimate with each other long enough to have one serious argument. They had resolved it a few days ago, but he did not want her to think that he was rejecting her because of it. She put her other hand over his.

"Jean-Luc, I don't think you know this, but the Midday break that the Denneezians take isn't just for lunch and an afternoon nap."

"It isn't?" he questioned, his back still straight. Her hands escaped his, her fingers wandering up his arms and back to his thigh.

"No. Physiologically, Midday is the optimum time for Denneezians to couple. Because of the heat," she added.

"You looked that up?"

"I am a doctor, Jean-Luc."

"I see."

His posture was still reluctant, which only made Beverly Crusher all the more interested. One thing that she'd learned over the past few weeks was that Jean-Luc Picard was awfully fun to seduce. And they had not made love since before their argument about her letter to Wesley, nearly a week ago. He'd had the sense to apologize and they had mutually declared the matter settled, but some of the tension remained, giving them excuses to stay apart. She leaned forward to nuzzle his cheek and he did not object as she slid her arms around him. It was about time that they really made up.

Still uneasy, Jean-Luc Picard returned her kisses cautiously. He was technically still on duty, mediating a heated trade dispute between a Ferengi captain and officials of the planetary government. This was only the second day of the negotiations on Denneez but he had learned already that the Denneezian lunch break was sacrosanct. Her explanation of the Denneezians' physiological motives now explained why. He had no idea what the rest of the planet did, but it seemed that the government completely shut down at Midday. Forgetting his weariness of the heavy air, he caressed her hips, enjoying the feel of her body in his arms before his hands moved up her back. _When in Rome..._

They kissed, their bodies pressed together, the heat and humidity between them increasing. He brought his hands up to brush her hair back away from her face. They had been unusually cool toward each other since she'd sent that damned letter to Wesley without telling him. Picard broke the kiss, hesitating, but only for a second. The damage was done. By now her son had gotten the news of their new relationship and that was it.

Jean-Luc brushed back a damp strand of red hair clinging to her face and kissed the place where it had been. Beverly felt his hands unfastening the back of her uniform and then slowly peel the top of it down off her shoulders. She closed her eyes, her own hands at his waist, her fingers sneaking under the hem of his tunic. His palms slowly massaged her shoulders, working lower to the front, into her undershirt. And then they left her.

_Oh, no,_ she silently moaned. _He's going to take his shoes off._

It was the most un-romantic thing that Jean-Luc Picard did. Somewhere near the beginning of their lovemaking, if he was wearing them, he would always stop and take his shoes and socks off. She was sure that he thought that the delay was tantalizing somehow, but she always found the interruption annoying. There was just something about the way he did it that took just long enough to momentarily stifle the mood. She opened her eyes and yes, he'd brought his legs up onto the bed and he had his hands on one of his boots.

She leaned forward and caught him off guard, her mouth trapping his. His hands returned to her shoulders.

_There's got to be a way to get those boots off of him without making a production out of it._

She tickled him behind the ears as they kissed. She stroked his shoulders and massaged his neck, the muscles there loosening. Her lips wandered down his chin to his neck, next to the collar of his uniform and the four captain's pips there.

_Or maybe I should just leave them on._

One of Beverly Crusher's own private sexual fantasies was that the man she made love to was so weak with passion, so mesmerized by her that he could not resist making love to her. In this case, she decided, she wanted him so helpless with desire that he couldn't even think to take his shoes off.

She lowered Picard to the bed, nudging him on the soft bedcovers toward the pillows. She freed her arms from the top of her uniform, letting it slide down to her waist. He lay under her, still wearing his own red and black uniform, his half-shadowed face looking surprised by her change of routine.

_Too much routine, Jean-Luc, that's your problem._

She straddled him and his uniform, fully intending that he wasn't going to be able to remember to take it off.

Well, most of it at least.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**BREAKFAST AT DENNEEZ**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 2**

"What are you doing?" Floron demanded as she stormed into the office. Minister Moor Shan'Kaar, a dainty mistress perched on his large knees, glared at the new arrival.

"Out!" Floron commanded. The mistress's face hardened, the painted ridges on her cheeks puckering, but when she turned back to Shan'Kaar he did not look back, his attention fully on his angry Director of Interstellar Trade. The mistress got up and left, fully intending to find more pliable Midday fare before she had to return to work in the late afternoon.

Shan'Kaar sized up Floron's generous and shapely figure as a potential substitute. She bared her teeth at his obviously covetous leer and folded her arms over her chest. He was certainly good looking enough to satisfy her requirements, except that he was the lowest bottom sucker on the planet. Shan'Kaar stood and walked around her to his desk as if he had decided that he suddenly wasn't in the mood anymore.

"And just what am I supposed to be doing?" he stared down at her, before taking his seat in the high throne-like chair on the pedestal behind his gleaming desk.

"If you want to diddle the Ferengi, fine. I don't care. But why do you have to tie up a Federation mediator over five thousand sazots of Terran cocoa!" The shadows around her eyes and under her cheek ridges deepened with her rage at the Minister's conceit and stupidity. Her bristly yellow hair trembled on her neck as she spoke.

"I don't suppose you've noticed those three Ferengi cruisers in orbit?" His painted, masculine lips curved into a cultured smile, his beautiful face framed by his thick mane of brown hair, styled perfectly from the top of his head, down the sides of his neck and lower.

"That's not a reason, you puss-bag! You don't need an off-world mediator or a starship to get rid of Ferengi. All you do is pay them off!" she yelled back, an angry avenger in heavy blue pleats and fierce yellow hair.

"You know me better than that."

She slammed her fists down on the polished desktop. "I had thought that I could credit you with some slight portion of common sense."

Shan'Kaar frowned down at the skin residue left behind on his desk by her unpowdered hands as she went on.

"Take your portion of the trade. That's your due. But you're taking too much this time. You've pushed the Ferengi further than they'll go. They're not Denneezians. You can't put them off."

"They always take their share of profit. As much as they can get." He leaned forward toward her.

"I'm not here to compare shares. I want you to settle this now and release the mediator." Floron bared her teeth with every word, but Shan'Kaar remained calm and closed-mouthed and resolute in the rightness of his portion. Floron momentarily pressed her fingertips to her cheek ridges, a gesture to calm herself.

"Clearly you don't understand the depths of what you're doing. Let me explain, in as simple terms as possible. We have a trade agreement with the Federation. Nothing fancy. Just twenty-four volumes of trade standards and legal dogma. The Federation has agreements just like it with hundreds of worlds. It's really a contract. All they did for us was fill in the particulars and you and the other Ministries put your signets to the final version last year. This contract includes services. Under this contract, you have called a Starfleet flagship here across half the sector, so that its captain can serve as the negotiator for a trade dispute whose value wouldn't even pay for one of your dinner parties! Do you know how stupid that makes us look?" Floron's voice rose again to its previous volume.

"I'm not responsible for that. Brahga's the one who specifically demanded Picard." Shan'Kaar tossed off her complaint and sat back in his throne.

"You. Are the one. Who made. The request," the Director enunciated, as if the emphasis might bore some sense into him. "This is the first time that a mediator has been called under our trade agreement. And the Federation was very accommodating. They sent Picard right away because you said it was an emergency. You're keeping his ship here. You've used his crew with your false claims about Brahga's cargo. You've used Picard. You've tied him to the mediation here where it's too hot and moist for him to be comfortable, just to prove your potency to Brahga."

"Brahga's actually been quite happy with the arrangements. He seemed quite impressed with my side of things once I set the rules of the negotiation."

Floron pressed her fingers to her cheek ridges again. It was getting to be a nervous habit. _Why did I have to return to my homeworld for this job?_ she wondered. "You can't possibly be stupid enough to believe your own vanity."

Shan'Kaar's smooth patience ebbed and his eyes and cheek ridges darkened. "You have stated your opinion, Floron. Now I-"

"Brahga expects Picard to decide in his favor. Of course he's being cooperative. I don't know why he hasn't demanded simple arbitration from Picard before this. And if it comes to that, Shan'Kaar, you'll have to take whatever Picard decides or permanently damage the trade agreement with the Federation, if you haven't already."

"Picard won't decide for Brahga. He hates Ferengi. You can tell by the way he moves his face."

Floron's shoulders dropped, her blue pleats sagging from her. "That's the smell. Human noses are a hundred times more sensitive than ours and in our atmosphere Brahga's body odor is probably overwhelming to him."

"Really?" Minister Narun Shan'Kaar stood, a clear invitation to end the discussion, but his Director was not quite willing to give up.

"Make an offer to Brahga. Something that won't make him gag. And end this whole petty dispute. If it stops now, then maybe we won't be hurt too badly. But if you continue to drag this out, for your own greedy concerns, then it will cost us in the future, when we really need something from the Federation."

Shan'Kaar towered over her again, his fitted green tunic hugging his muscular body. Having already dismissed her arguments, he smiled invitingly down at Floron, and then toward the door of his office's bathroom.

"Drink brine, puss-bag." Floron turned and left.

* * *

**ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

Picard lay on his side with his head half buried in the soft pillows. Crusher, her body close to his, stroked his side. Content, he lay quietly with his eyes closed while her hand roamed. His uniform was soaked through with sweat. The wet fabric next to his skin felt wonderfully cool, the first time since he'd arrived on this planet.

She moved, the weight of her body making the too-soft mattress slope toward her. Their bodies touched. She nuzzled his shoulder, the side of his head. Her lips touched his forehead, his cheek. Her damp, bare skin rubbed against the satin-like sheets, noisy in the quiet room.

Then she rolled away from him and off the bed. She padded into the bathroom, the fountain noise from inside momentarily getting louder as the door opened and closed. She would almost always get up and shower before he would. He thought about getting up and going with her. Making love in stifling humidity had its disadvantages. He was covered with cool, but sticky sweat, head to toe, and still in uniform with the blanket bunched up around his middle. He even still had his boots on.

Beverly Crusher had removed all of her clothes. Well, they had both removed them. Strategically, it would have been difficult for them to manage otherwise, since her single piece uniform opened from the back. He thought about her in the bath. There would be plenty of room for both of them. The main room of the quarters the Denneezians had appointed for him was average. The bathroom, however, was decadent in its lavishness. Along with a bathtub that could have held three people comfortably, it also seemed to contain every possible running-water fixture for personal hygiene that any humanoid could want. Denneezians commonly entertained guests in their bathrooms.

"Jean-Luc."

He opened his eyes and lazily smiled up at his lover. Crusher stood over him. Rumpled and her hair disarranged, she was wearing her uniform. She also held her tricorder. His smiled faded.

"What's wrong?"

"I think you'd better have a look at this." He got up, pausing to fasten his trousers, and went to the bathroom door.

In front of the row of sinks and their gilded fixtures, lay a still and contorted body. Picard glanced at the doctor, but she shook her head.

"He's dead, Jean-Luc."

Picard knelt by the body. It was Brahga, the Ferengi daimon who had been so dramatically complaining about his grievances to him a few hours ago.

"What's this?" He pointed at a gleaming metal band just over the Ferengi's horizontal forehead ridge. It terminated, at both ends, in two metal disks, just behind Brahga's enormous ears. A wire ran from one side to a small, red and gold sphere clutched in Brahga's wrinkled hands. His jagged teeth were bared...in what looked like a colossal grin. Crusher crouched next to him.

"I don't know. Whatever it is, it's designed to feed input directly into the brain and it's still activated. Though it isn't doing a whole lot of good for him now."

"What did he die from?"

She glanced at her tricorder. "It looks like a stroke."

Picard looked at the grinning corpse. "That's the funniest stroke I've ever seen."

* * *

**ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

Inspector Sorse entered the suite. Two investigators were already scanning the room with tricorders. In the lavatory, he found the forensic investigator and her team recording the scene of death.

Sorse stood over the body, his keen Vulcan senses noting every detail. No obvious evidence of violence; the visible portions of the Ferengi's aged skin were unbruised and unbroken. The fabric of his garish blue suit was wrinkled in places, but intact and not seriously stressed. It did not appear that the device attached to the Ferengi's bulging head had been forced on. Sorse raised his graying eyebrows; the dead alien's facial expression looked quite euphoric.

"You have a preliminary report, Investigator Lon?" The pathologist stood up from her work to greet him.

"It appears that Daimon Brahga has had a stroke."

"That is all?"

Lon glanced down at her work. Her busy assistants came in with a stretcher; their record of the death now complete, they prepared to remove the remains.

"Well, we don't know what caused the stroke. And that device on his head is my chief suspect right now."

"Could it have been the cause?"

"Easily."

They stepped away from the center of action over to the row of matching toilets. Sorse, having been on Denneez for nearly half a year now, did not even give a second thought about the Denneezian's fascination with their bodily functions and their wasteful use of water. The Vulcan cleared his throat, a habit he regretted acquiring since coming to this steamy climate.

"I'll be doing an autopsy, of course. But I'd like to take advantage of Captain Picard's offer to use the facilities on his ship to identify that device on the Ferengi's head."

"Captain Picard?" Sorse asked.

"He was one of the people who found the body. He and his medical officer, Doctor Crusher, were staying in this room and they found the body here right in the middle of Midday."

"Ah," Sorse acknowledged.

Lon's assistants had fastened the body to their stretcher, covered it with a brown shroud and carried it out.

"The Starfleet ship in orbit. Picard is the negotiator then." Sorse had been given only the briefest outline of events before arriving on the scene. The call had come during his Midday. While most of Denneez celebrated their physical desires, Sorse had found the time ideal for serious thought. He had been deep in his meditations, in his de-humidified apartment, when the call came.

"They'll need your permission though, before we can allow any of Picard's people to scan anything."

Sorse shook his head. "Chief Vorix will need to approve that. I do not have the authority."

A tall commanding Denneezian, well dressed in a purple and black tailored jacket, stepped into the room. He walked over to Sorse and Lon.

"Is he dead?"

"The Ferengi, Daimon Brahga, is dead," Sorse answered. "It is a concern for you?"

The newcomer seemed surprised, as if the inspector should have recognized him. "Yes. I'm Minister Shan'Kaar. I was engaged in trade negotiations with him. But now, I suppose it's resolved."

"I would suppose so." Sorse remained expressionless. Shan'Kaar displayed the usual discomfort with his lack of emotional embellishment in his speech that Sorse saw in almost every Denneezians who did not know him.

"We were negotiating a trade dispute," Shan'Kaar explained.

"I see."

The Denneezian minister appeared flustered by the Vulcan's lack of reaction. "Then . . . I'll be going."

"If we need to speak to you, you will be contacted," Sorse told the retreating minister with his usual detached calm.

Shan'Kaar left. Sorse turned to find Lon grinning at him. She smoothed the steel-colored hair at the side of her neck, a gesture that Sorse had learned meant approval and even admiration.

"You have a way with people, Sorse."

**

* * *

- - - End Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**BREAKFAST AT DENNEEZ**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 3**

Picard stepped ot of the bathroom, clean at last. The new rooms that he and Crusher had been left to wait in were almost identical to the previous ones, except that the padded floor was gray instead of green.

Crusher, clad in a soft, blue robe that went down to her knees, lay on the bed. They'd been provided with an ample supply of uni-sex clothes to pick from in the bathroom closet, all made from the same thin, soft material. But every single one of them had a painted scene on the front, and some of them on the back as well. Crusher's chest was adorned with two Denneezians taking a bath.

Picard was similarly dressed with a flaming flower arrangement on his chest, their soiled uniforms left in the bathroom. The doctor's tricorder lay on a side table with her communicator. The captain had attached his to his robe. He tapped the comm badge with no result.

"They're still blocking the signal to the ship," he complained. He dabbed at his damp neck with a hand towel and then tossed it away onto the low chest of drawers. Denneezian towels were made out of some kind of thin, flexible, sponge material. It absorbed water well, but towels made from it felt strange and clammy next to the skin.

"You'd think Will would have sent somebody by now," Crusher replied, sitting up. Picard sat down on the bed.

"He probably has. But he can't just charge in over the Denneezians." Restless, the captain got up again and picked up the tricorder. He flipped it open and activated the memory recall. He sat down and Crusher slid over to sit next to him.

"If we only knew what Brahga was up to . . . " he speculated.

"It's pretty obvious what he was doing-"

The captain waved her off. "It's obvious what he was doing when he died, but I doubt that's what he intended."

Knock, knock.

They both sat up, automatically readjusting the pale blue robes that they wore. Picard put the tricorder aside, got up and went to the door.

A Vulcan with thick graying hair and bushy eyebrows, and wearing a sand colored Denneezian suit, entered. Commander Will Riker followed right behind. Relieved, Crusher stood to greet them. Riker glanced up and down and raised his eyebrows at their change of clothes, but he didn't say anything.

"Captain, Doctor," Riker greeted them.

"Captain Picard, I am Inspector Sorse of the Denneezian constabulary. I am specifically employed by the Union of Public Order to investigate incidents involving off-worlders."

Picard nodded in greeting. "Inspector. This is my medical officer, Doctor Beverly Crusher."

They all stood in the main room. Sorse glanced at the room's chairs and sat down on a low, wide chest of drawers, carefully moving Picard's discarded towel before sitting. Picard and Crusher sat down on the bed again and Riker sat in one of the hammock-seat chairs.

"First, Captain, I apologize that you have not been allowed to contact your ship. I realize that this is a violation of the Denneezian agreements with the Federation. This, and the transporter screen, was ordered by my immediate superior, Chief Vorix. The Minister of Public Order must reverse this and a request has been forwarded to her directly."

"Thank you," Picard answered.

Sorse noisily cleared his throat . "In the meantime, I must question you and the doctor on the circumstances of Daimon Brahga's death. When did you return to the room and when did you discover the body?"

"I returned to the rooms after the morning negotiations."

"Did you and Brahga leave at the same time?"

Picard thought about it. "No, Brahga left first. I stopped to report to my ship and to speak with Minister Shan'Kaar about the next session."

"And you did not see anything."

"No." Picard wasn't used to being questioned about what he did, and he didn't particularly like it.

"Did you enter the bathroom?"

"Yes, but I didn't see anything."

"Our preliminary investigation indicates that someone had been hiding in the bathroom closet." Sorse cleared his throat again. "Doctor, you were present when the body was found. When did you arrive at Captain Picard's room?"

Crusher crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap."I finished my examination of Daimon Brahga's cargo and I went to report my findings to the captain."

"This was after the morning negotiation session?" Sorse prompted.

"Yes."

"Do you know at what time this was?"

Picard remembered looking at the clock. "It was 27 minutes, Midday Time."

"You discovered the body near the beginning of the second Midday quarter; approximately..." Sorse paused only briefly for a quick mental calculation, "...93.4 minutes later, using Starfleet standard time. Can you tell me what you were doing in that time?"

Picard's eyes flicked toward Crusher. She shrugged, making a what-the-hell-do-we-tell-him? face. They were both sitting apart from each other on the soft bed. Riker, puzzled by the silence, sat forward in his chair.

"It isn't important." Picard answered.

Sorse raised his bushy eyebrows.

"That is an illogical and inaccurate statement." The Vulcan, his deeply lined face calm and impassive, looked from Picard to Crusher. Woman and man. "Were you both on the bed during that entire time?"

Picard glared back. "Yes."

Sorse cocked his head. Denneezians had no sense of discretion for their biological functions whatsoever, at least by Vulcan standards. Common Human behavior was somewhere in between the two. Picard and Crushers' posture conveyed a reassuring desire for privacy to the inspector. To his right, Sorse saw an emerging expression of amusement on Commander Riker's face. Brief and subtle eye contact passed quickly between the two seated on the bed and the commander in the chair. Riker's face changed to disinterest. Sorse noted the byplay, mentally filing it with all the other details of the case.

"Do you have any idea why Brahga would have been in your bathroom, or what the device he had was?"

Picard visibly relaxed, silently thanking the Vulcan's tact.

"Yes," the captain stated. "We think that Brahga was spying on us. On me. And probably trying to use that device to influence my decision in the negotiations."

Sorse cleared his throat. "You have seen such a device before?"

"Yes." Picard nodded. "Several years ago, another Ferengi used something like it to . . . influence me." He turned and picked up the tricorder lying on the bed behind him. "It was a type of thought transfer . . . "

Sorse, unmoving on the chest of drawers, had his hand out, a silent demand that the tricorder be handed over. Picard stood to give it to him.

"We scanned the device and its memory and," he nodded back to his medical officer, "Doctor Crusher is certain that it is a similar device to the one that was used on me before."

"You did not tell my investigators that you had this with you when they first arrived." Sorse calmly looked at the unfamiliar layout of the Starfleet medical tricorder. He recognized a few functions that were common to all tricorders, whether they were designed to probe new life forms or scan crime scenes.

"They didn't ask for it."

Sorse glanced up at Picard whose face was utterly expressionless. The Human was standing close enough for Sorse's short-range telepathy to feel a trace of Picard's thoughts, if the Vulcan chose to let himself be receptive to them. Sorse did just that. Other Vulcans might have been scandalized by his mental voyeurism, but Sorse knew his motives to be entirely logical. He was simply collecting information.

From Picard, Sorse sensed only an intense and focused desire to finish and return to his ship. Sorse got up, standing with Picard.

"We will record the memory of your tricorder." Commander Riker tried to stand and found out why the other people in the room had avoided the chairs. Doctor Crusher lent him a hand to lever him out of the chair.

"And then we will return it to your ship," Sorse finished.

The inspector left.

**

* * *

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

This was a disaster of the kind that one expected to read about happening to other people, Floron decided.

"I don't care what standard security procedures are," she told Chief Vorix on her office computer screen, "you've got to take down that transporter screen. They're not going anywhere!" she repeated for the sixth time. "They're Starfleet. If they say they won't beam out without your permission, they won't."

Vorix, a bureaucratic old fossil that Floron thought should have retired a lifetime ago, smacked his lips. A little bit of spittle landed on a lower corner of the screen. "Hrummph. Now see here, Director. You don't have any authority to give me orders. I've been doing this job since before you were born."

_Since before my mother was born._

"I know a lot better than you do about these space types and they can't be trusted. They're all . . . " Floron seethed as Vorix went into another tale of his vast wisdom. She cut him off and flashed Minister Prost's orders across the old fish-skin's screen. He flustered and fumed, but he finally croaked out his own orders. The transporter screen went down.

Floron immediately signed off and sent one of her secretaries to inform Picard that he could contact his ship. Vorix had refused to allow any of Picard's personnel to look at the scene of Brahga's death and Floron couldn't get around him on that point. But returning the tricorder would go a long way toward keeping the Starfleet ship busy while the captain was detained. She added a (she hoped) sincere sounding apology for the inconvenience to her message to Picard. It was a sure thing that Shan'Kaar wouldn't think of it.

Floron spent the next hour running errands and finessing over the return of Daimon Brahga's body to his son, the new Daimon Brahnon. The Ferengi refused to allow an autopsy-apparently the sale price on the remains of their dead was severely depressed if the body wasn't handled in the proscribed fashion. Floron arranged times and places and a method of transport without actually having to mention to Brahnon that his father's body had _already_ been autopsied by the too-efficient Public Order coroner's department.

Back at her office, the director grabbed a few bites from a tray left by one of her secretaries. She took the food with her to the bathtub. She was pleasantly immersed in a warm bath just in time for her meeting with Shan'Kaar and the Public Order detective.

Upon arriving, Shan'Kaar stripped and helped himself to the opposite end of the bath, splashing water on Inspector Sorse's shoes as he did so. The Vulcan, of course, remained fully clothed and standing. He even declined Floron's invitation to use any of her toilets. She hadn't really expected that he would, but it was polite for her to ask.

They reviewed the evidence surrounding Brahga's death on the wall screen: autopsy, scanners on the scene, and the readouts from Crusher's Starfleet tricorder. Shan'Kaar reclined lazily, obviously enjoying the details of Brahga's demise. His interest, however, doubled when they got to the recording made by the Ferengi's "mind scanner", as it was being called.

"We were able to translate the data with the help of Doctor Crusher's staff." Sorse cleared his throat and pointed to a set of black scrawls. "This is where the device was turned on, immediately after Picard returned to his room. He rested briefly, before Doctor Crusher arrived." Sorse cleared his throat again. "This seems to be where they initiated libidinal activities."

Shan'Kaar tapped the control on his side of the bath, switching to a longer time scale on the display and then focusing in on a violently jagged section of scrawls.

"Picard certainly knows how to use a Midday. I wouldn't have expected anything like this from a constipated Starfleet captain like him."

"Crusher wasn't exactly lifeless either," Floron pointed out.

Shan'Kaar didn't appear to have heard her. Floron watched him gaze up at the monitor, idly rubbing his well-formed pectoral ridges.

_Good body on a jerk like that; what a waste._

"I suppose Brahga at least died happy," the Minister commented.

The Vulcan cleared his throat again and waited for the two Denneezians to finish admiring the recording. It was totally illogical and prejudicial of them to be so incredulous. If anything, Earth Humans were even more over-sexed than Denneezians. They were sexually active all the time and not dependent upon a daily cycle as the Denneezians were.

At last, the two bathers finally asked for his assessment and Sorse gave it. Their background investigation revealed that Brahga had been an associate of a Daimon Bok, the Ferengi who had used a similar mind-scanning device on Picard several years before. And Brahga had purchased some of Bok's possessions after Bok's bankruptcy following his censure by his people for using the illegal device. It was theorized (but could not be confirmed) that Brahga had obtained recordings of Picard's brain wave patterns this way, making it possible for him to affect the captain with a simpler but similar device. It was also theorized that this was why Brahga had specifically requested Picard. Records showed that, over the years, Brahga had requested Picard as a negotiator before, but he hadn't been available. This was apparently Brahga's first chance to use Bok's legacy.

Sorse finished with his conclusions. Cause of death: stroke directly caused by sensory overload from the mind scanner inputs, which Brahga had turned up to their maximum setting. Expected ruling: accidental suicide.

"Well, we'll settle that at the open hearing tomorrow," Shan'Kaar casually commented.

"What?" Floron splashed upright, her mouth open, her wet yellow hair flat on her head and neck.

"I'm going to schedule a hearing tomorrow, settle all the details." Shan'Kaar got up and reached for a stack of towels.

"You _can't_ have an open hearing about this!"

"Oh? And why not? I thought you wanted this business over with as soon as possible."

"Because they're off-worlders, you ridge rot! You can't show all _that_ in an open hearing!" She waved her arm at the monitor. Shan'Kaar stepped out of the bath and continued to dry himself.

"I don't see why not. You're absolving them of any blame aren't you, Sorse?" The Vulcan solemnly nodded. Shan'Kaar reached for the pot of cyr petal powder and began dabbing it on himself.

Floron popped out of the water and stormed out of her bath, heedless of the splashing and the trail behind her. "They're _off-worlders_. They'll take offense at you dragging their Midday out in public! These Humans are very private about things like that."

She seized a towel and, snapping it in Shan'Kaar's direction, began scrubbing off the moisture from where it clung to her breast and hip ridges. Sorse stood aside and averted his eyes. The Denneezians' bathroom socializing didn't disturb him; it would have been illogical for him to have accepted employment with them if it did. But he felt it important to remind himself that the behavioral norm on this planet was significantly different from what he preferred.

"Shan'Kaar, you _can't_ do this!" Floron went on while he put on his clothes. "Do you have any idea what Picard's report about this fiasco will look like after you hold a public hearing about how Brahga died!"

"Should I care?" He tidied his mane of hair.

"Yes! Picard is a senior starship captain. He going to write a detailed report about what you did to him. And Doctor Crusher's going to do the same thing. And probably everybody on their ship who saw that tricorder recording. And it's not going to be pretty! And those reports are going to go back to the Federation, and go to seed in the biggest bureaucracy this galaxy has ever seen, and they're going to grow roots and _stay there_ for the next fifty years." She shook her towel at him, following him while he collected his shoes.

"And the next time you or anyone else on this planet needs anything from the Federation for the next two generations, those reports are going to surface, and they're going to send us some junior admiral's lizard's lick to tell us to make an appointment!"

"You're exaggerating-"

"I am _not_ exaggerating! I have lived off of this planet, Shan'Kaar. I know what it's like. The machinery that drives Starfleet and the Federation is bigger than this whole planet." Shan'Kaar smoothed the lines of his jacket and examined his appearance in the mirrors while she continued to yell at him. Surprised by Shan'Kaar's suggestion of an open hearing, Sorse stepped forward.

"The ruling of accidental suicide is not contested. I have spoken with Daimon Brahnon. He seemed eager to conclude the affair and resume the mediation. A public hearing is not required."

"Oh, I'm sure Brahnon would love to take over his father's business." Shan'Kaar smiled back at himself in the largest mirror. "But I think that a hearing would be quite . . . informative for everyone." He turned back to the grave-faced Sorse. "The hearing will be tomorrow. I'll contact your superior about it and arrange things with the other authorities."

Shan'Kaar left. Floron sputtered with rage at his back.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**BREAKFAST AT DENNEEZ**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 4**

"I'll have some of this." Picard pointed to the picture on the menu screen. The waiter nodded and marked down the order. Having already taken Doctor Crusher's order, she left their table.

They sat at a an obnoxiously pink table on the restaurant's terrace. The chairs were turquoise with the ubiquitous hammock seats that were fortunately slung high enough for them to sit normally.. The sun hung low in the sky. A whisper of a late afternoon breeze slightly curbed the oppressive heat and humidity. It was cooler inside, but the eating arrangements were not friendly to the appetites of the two Humans. Denneezians placed eating and personal hygiene on the same social level. The furnishings on the inside of the restaurant were an even mixture of tables, chairs, baths and toilets. Neither one of them wanted to watch any of this over their dinner, so they had claimed a table on the outer edge of the sparsely populated terrace while most of the patrons inside the restaurant were non-natives. Thankfully, the building's architect hadn't thought to equip any of the outside tables with plumbing.

Picard grumbled about the lack of replicators in the rooms. He felt at least grateful to his first officer for the clean uniforms that he and Crusher now wore. Twenty minutes after the commander had left them, one of Sorse's assistants arrived with a case from the _Enterprise_. It had contained, among other things, two complete changes of clothes for each of them and the book Picard had been reading in his ready room.

"They can't have everything," Crusher answered. Picard didn't respond.

She watched him unhappily look at the scenery. The terrace overlooked a large and watery park. In the distance, sparse greenish brown plants dotted a ridge of white sand dunes. With no moon and its gravity to stir them, Denneez's shallow seas and lakes were more like great, stagnant swamps. Crusher looked at the plants that lined the terrace. They were mostly deep green, flowering vines and bushes that were totally inappropriate to the climate. She didn't recognize the exact species, but she knew enough about general plant biology to realize that it was too damp for them. Traces of decay and fungus on some leaves confirmed this for her. Among them, a hardy, brownish weed covered with tiny, thorny seeds, flourished.

"Captain Picard?"

They both turned. Inspector Sorse had silently approached their table while they were both absorbed with their own thoughts. Picard invited the Vulcan to sit. He coughed and cleared his throat and Doctor Crusher asked about it and how well he was adjusted to the humidity. Sorse politely, but firmly told her that his personal affairs were private.

"Captain, I have some unfortunate news to deliver."

"Yes?" Picard frowned. Sorse was in charge of the investigation about Brahga's death. But the Vulcan raised a hand and reassured them that the only blame was to be laid on Brahga himself.

"No, the matter that I have come to speak with you about concerns Minister Shan'Kaar's intention to hold an open hearing to review the circumstances of Brahga's death."

"An open hearing?" Picard asked.

"Yes. All persons, even remotely connected to the incident, and any interested members of the public, will be invited to an open meeting during which every detail of the circumstances around Brahga's death will be covered."

"What?" Crusher exclaimed.

"Why?" Picard demanded.

"I do not know. Shan'Kaar's actions are totally illogical." The Vulcan cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table before him. "Captain, I am completely at a loss to explain Minister Shan'Kaar's motives. It is within his authority to call for such a hearing, but I can see no reason why he should wish it. He has been told very forcefully by Director Floron, the Director of Interstellar Trade, that you would be greatly inconvenienced by it. Director Floron has asked me to personally extend her apologize for Shan'Kaar's actions. She will try her best to settle the matter without an open hearing, but she does not think she will be successful."

"Wonderful," the captain declared.

_Sarcasm_, Sorse noted, along with both Humans' open displeasure. Neither were suspected in causing Brahga's death, but the detective mentally catalogued their reactions out of habit. Neither of them showed any sign of worry over the expected hearing, but indignation emanated from them. The Vulcan inspector produced a notepadd and handed it to the doctor. On it was the data from Brahga's mind scanner device. After reviewing it, she handed it to the captain. The data meant less to him than to the doctor, but it was obvious even to his own untrained eye which squiggling lines were his and Crusher's and what they were doing and for how long. Their own activities were mirrored to a much lesser degree in Brahga's physical reactions . . . until he'd had his stroke about ten minutes before he and Crusher had reached their . . . peak. Amazingly durable, the device had kept running even after its user had died.

Sorse continued. "Your staff has been most helpful in this investigation. They have confirmed your account of your earlier encounter with the Ferengi Bok, and the illegal nature of Brahga's device. That would give Shan'Kaar the means to undermine Brahga, with the revelation of its use . . . if Brahga were still alive. Brahnon has denied any knowledge of it, or its use, and nothing can be proved to connect him to it." That, and any other theory they proposed went nowhere; no theory as to Shan'Kaar's motives emerged.

"Inspector," Crusher drew his attention, "what exactly would happen at this open meeting?"

"The stated purpose of the hearing would be to review and conclude all questions regarding Brahga's death. It is a means for all parties involved to publicly finalize the circumstances of the death. Denneez has a long tradition of public declarations for significant events, most often tragedies. However . . ." Sorse cleared his throat again.

Doctor Crusher listened to it carefully. Probably some kind of bronchitis, no doubt caused by the humid atmosphere.

". . . given what I have learned about the Denneezians' fascination with their own bodily functions, it is almost assured that the real focus of the hearing will become your activity, as well as Brahga's voyeurism."

The waiter swept up to the table, a laden tray held aloft over her shoulder. Sorse used this as his cue to leave. He stood while the waiter laid out plates of greens and pale, boiled something. After repeating Floron's apologies—she had actually told him to say it at least three times, but Sorse felt that this was superfluous-the Vulcan left the two Starfleet officers to their meal.

They ate in silence for long minutes until Doctor Crusher couldn't stand the deadly gloom any more and spoke.

"Well, it could be worse."

"What?" Picard demanded over his plate of greens and stir-fried flower petals. The food was acceptable and filling, but plain and curiously homogenous, like it had come from a replicator that didn't have a very large selection.

"This hearing. I mean, it's not like they're going to execute us." His expression soured at her. He put down the pronged scoop that had come with the meal.

"Beverly, Shan'Kaar is going to drag out our personal affairs in public for his own purposes. It's bad enough."

She put her own scoop down amidst the remains of her purple pasta and untouched pile of boiled grain. "Jean-Luc, the Denneezians obviously don't think anything of it. Next to them we're a couple of prudes."

She gestured toward the indoor eating area/bathroom where a large number of Denneezians enjoyed the facilities. It had been so hot that neither one of them had been interested in lunch, which turned out to be fortunate for them, since their waiter had genially informed them that the restaurant also had an excellent Midday menu and activities.

"Minister Shan'Kaar isn't calling a hearing because he wants to establish the truth about Brahga's death. For some twisted reason he probably wants to rub it in on Brahga's son to get an advantage on the trade dispute. And I don't particularly appreciate playing the pawn in his game with the Ferengi."

"Well, I'm not going to worry about it. It's not going get any of this over with any faster," Crusher declared, tired of her captain's melodramatic wounded honor. He muttered something and took another stab at his greens.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he denied over a small mouthful.

"It wasn't nothing. You said something about, 'You wouldn't'? Why wouldn't I?" She pinned him with her glare.

He looked back uncomfortably, debating how much honesty the discussion could stand. There was nobody near their pink table on the almost deserted terrace.

"Well, you're not very discreet, when we uh . . . um . . . "

"Discreet?"

"Well, yes . . . you . . . you're noisy." he admitted.

"Noisy?" she asked, incredulous. "Is that what you call it?"

"Well, yes. All that moaning and groaning, it's . . . tacky. It's like a romance novel."

"Why didn't you say anything?" _Why am I always asking him this about things? Why the hell doesn't he just come out and tell me if something's bothering him?_

"Well, I . . . assumed you liked it and . . . I didn't really think you could help it."

"What?" He looked very uncomfortable, and as far as she was concerned, not uncomfortable enough. "Wait a minute . . ."

Jean-Luc Picard was a wonderful kisser, and he used it all the way through their lovemaking. She liked it a lot. But it suddenly occurred to her that it was also a good way for him to shut her up. _Why the hell doesn't he tell me these things?_ She put her napkin down, pushed her plate away, and got up. They weren't arguing, but she knew if she stayed they probably would be.

"Have a nice quiet meal." She left him.

* * *

**ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

The Ferengi transporter effect vanished, leaving the new Daimon Brahnon standing before Minister Moor Shan'Kaar's desk.

"What do you want, Den-NEE-zian?" the diminutive Brahnon demanded. The Ferengi had already appropriated his dead father's best blue suit, the one he'd died in. It was too small. The front of the jacket wouldn't close all the way around his chest, the sparkling shirt and straining fasteners underneath clearly visible.

"Oh, I just had a little information about your father's . . . sad demise." Shan'Kaar's voice dripped with melodramatic insincerity.

"You desecrated _my_ father's body! You will pay for that Den-NEE-zian. I promise you!" Brahnon exclaimed, his breath hissing around his jagged, uneven teeth.

"True, true. We are guilty. But it's a pity, really, that the investigators didn't know much about Ferengi physiology, else they might have seen something . . . quite interesting. As it was though . . . " Shan'Kaar cheerfully slid a note padd, glowing lines and Ferengi letters on its screen, over to Brahnon, " . . . there was a recording. It's quite . . . enlightening."

Brahnon automatically denied any knowledge of his father's illegal device as he cautiously looked at the padd. Shan'Kaar narrated the events that led to Brahga's death while his guest read the details. The minister reclined in his throne and smoothed his brown neck hair while the Ferengi's arrogance evaporated. Brahnon looked up, his eyes fearful, horrified.

"You cannot reveal this, Shan'Kaar!"

"Oh, I don't know how I could possibly stop it. The hearing is set for tomorrow. Your father's death must be publicly settled, else there will be . . . rumors and . . . suspicions."

Brahnon fretted, his face scrunched up in near panic. Cornered, he looked about for an escape that was not there.

"All right. I'll take your worthless payment," Brahnon hissed.

"One third, then?" Shan'Kaar inquired genially, his smile broad, his cheek ridges perfectly painted and powdered.

"One third!" The Ferengi's eyes bulged. Shan'Kaar's friendly expression vanished. He tilted his head and reached for the padd. "No! I—I . . . " Brahnon sucked in panicky breaths. "I agree!"

Shan'Kaar's smile returned and he sat back in his throne.

* * *

**ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

Beverly Crusher exited the bathroom. Jean-Luc Picard sat in one of the room's chairs, reading his book.

"All yours," she announced as she passed him.

"Hrmph." His eyes flicked up at her and then back down to the page. Crusher shrugged and sat down on the bed. Why was he sitting in the chair? It was almost like sitting on the floor, the hammock seat was so low. He was reading his book between his knees. She looked at the chrono. It was near the end of the last Evening quarter, Shan'Kaar's open hearing wasn't scheduled until the middle of the Morning. Dressed in a knee-length green Denneezian shirt with a blue and purple fountain on its front, she was ready to go to bed, but . . .

Picard sat in his chair, sullenly (she thought) reading his book. The lighting in the room was terrible.

He ignored her. Crusher sighed to herself. When Jean-Luc Picard was angry or moody, he could be extremely unpleasant to be around. _Well, there isn't any other place for me to go, Jean-Luc._ She settled herself on the bed, lying down on the covers because of the stuffy humidity. _You're not going to drive me out this time_. She thought about last week's argument.

She had left his quarters and hadn't shown up for breakfast for two days after that. What right did he have to demand to censor her mail to her own son? Keeping in touch was sporadic enough, since Wesley was out there finding himself by not only travelling the galaxy, but time, and probably a few other dimensions, as well. When the message had arrived, she'd sent her reply right away to catch him before he moved on.

She lay on her side, her back to Picard. She closed her eyes and swallowed, the noise sounding loud, and she wondered if he'd heard her. The pages of his book slid against each other as he turned them. She wanted to be alone. She was sure he wanted to be alone, too. She felt as if their friendship was being stretched between them in the stifling silence in the room. Lovers, friends, fellow officers, what were they now? When his secret love for her had come to light months ago, she had held back, afraid that this kind of situation would develop between them. She'd seen too many good friendships poisoned by a love affair. Was this going to happen between them?

She listened, his presence in the room a subliminal noise. Wasn't he going to use the bathroom? Was he going to sit in an uncomfortable chair and read in bad light all night? This was so like him, to sit and stew rather than talk This was why she had been so reluctant about a relationship with him. He was so solitary in nature, she knew right away that there would be a long, bumpy passage between them, just getting used to being together. She closed her eyes and made herself more comfortable.

_You just want him to sweep you off your feet, so you don't have to think about it._

She had a real weakness for that sort of affair. But, all attraction aside, looking at Jean-Luc Picard made her want to schedule her itinerary with him for the next two months. He just wasn't the sweeping off the feet kind.

_But he thinks he is._

She closed her eyes. Jean-Luc Picard was an idealist when it came down to it, and if the relationship he was in failed to meet the ideal . . . but there he was, sitting in his chair, alone . . . reading his book, alone, while she lay by herself on the bed. She wanted him with her, but she wasn't going to ask him. She didn't feel like wading through his defensiveness, or listening to him make up some lame excuse for his sulking.

_Is he going to sit there all night . . ._

Beverly Crusher started awake. She'd fallen asleep. The room looked the same as it had before, unchanged by the passage of time. But she _knew_ it was later. Much later. She looked toward the timepiece by the bed. It was near the end of Night. She yawned and turned over.

Jean-Luc Picard was still in his chair, asleep, his book in his lap.

She sighed, quietly got up and slipped past him into the bathroom. When she came out he was still there. Crusher looked down at him. It was a lot harder to remember how irritating he could be when he was like this.

She reached down and slowly, carefully slid the book out from under his hands. This wasn't the first time she'd seen him fall asleep over a book. The first few times she'd tried, she'd woken him when she took the book away, but she was getting better at it.

Holding the liberated volume aloft, she started to lay it on the chest of drawers next to the chair, but she had a better idea. Thump! The book dropped thirty centimeters down onto the chest.

"Huh?" Picard started and looked around and then up at her.

"Oh." He started to get up and groaned. He was stiff from hours of sitting in one position in that low chair. She extended her hand and helped him up. He stiffly went into the bathroom. When he came out, wearing a long, pastel pink shirt with a shooting star and Denneezian script on it. He looked at the clock. He felt a touch and turned.

Beverly Crusher put her arms around his waist. He relaxed, feeling again as foolish as he had when he'd woken up in the chair. She felt his muscles relax and he even managed a tiny smile.

"I suppose it's not as bad as it could be."

"Um hm," she agreed. He slid his arms around her.

"I just don't like the idea of being the pawn in Shan'Kaar's scheme to cheat the Ferengi."

"Is that what you think it is?"

"I'm sure of it now. Shan'Kaar contracted the Ferengi to deliver the cocoa. And when it arrived, I think Shan'Kaar saw an opportunity to get it for half the price. He accused the Ferengi of trying to deliver a contaminated cargo, sent messages to any other likely buyers in the sector, making it nearly impossible for Brahga to get rid of it, and then kindly announced that the Denneezian Ministry of Interstellar Trade would take it off his hands for half of what they agreed. I don't think Shan'Kaar was at all expecting Brahga to park his ships around the planet and harass any of their other trading partners."

"So, Shan'Kaar called for a mediator?" Crusher lightly rubbed his lower back where he would be most sore from spending the night in the chair.

"Yes, but Brahga requested me specifically. He's had that recording from Bok for years and he finally got a chance to use it."

"Hmm." She moved closer, her arms holding him a little tighter. _He's not even going to think about apologizing for his sulking last night._

He stiffened. "Beverly, isn't this how we got into trouble in the first place?" But his arms stayed around her.

"I know." She hugged him. _I really need to tell him what an idiot he is sometimes._

He hugged her back. He liked the feel of her, the intimacy. It was becoming hard to think of ever not having it. He knew he was becoming dependent upon it and he didn't like the idea of being dependent on anything, particularly if it was emotional. After their argument over her letter to Wesley, she'd stayed away and every night she was gone he had fallen asleep in a chair, reading and unwilling to go to bed . . . alone. He hadn't told her this since they'd settled things between them, and he wondered if he should.

They separated and she gave him a peck on the lips. He followed it up with something better. But it didn't go any further. Finding a Ferengi voyeur in the bathroom had cooled their ardor quite a bit. _That's all we'd need now, another Ferengi, or even Shan'Kaar listening in on us. As if they couldn't get enough . . ._

"What?" Crusher asked, curious at his sudden change of expression.

"I know why Shan'Kaar is having the hearing," he said, focused on the new idea. "And I know what killed Brahga."

"It was a stroke."

"Besides that," he insisted, releasing her. He went to the bathroom, leaving her to follow. "Come on, get dressed. We're going to go talk to Sorse."

**

* * *

- - - End Part 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**BREAKFAST AT DENNEEZ**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 5**

Inspector Sorse and the two Starfleet officers politely stood aside while the Denneezians, two males and two females, filed past as they exited Director Floron's bathroom. They all wore long, damp shirts, clinging to their bodies with painted pictures on their fronts. It might have been a simple breakfast bath, but Sorse knew Floron's reputation and appetites. It was well known that she was capable of occasionally indulging in sex in the Morning as well as during the usual Midday.

Floron, dry but naked, came to the door of her bathroom. To Starfleet's credit, she noticed that neither Picard nor Crusher flinched. Sorse averted his eyes as usual, but the Vulcan had a way of making his species insecurities look natural. She gestured them into her bathroom and then returned to the water. They'd interrupted her Morning Group and she wasn't feeling too diplomatic at the moment. She didn't invite them into the bath. She knew they wouldn't accept and Floron didn't feel like looking at naked, eel-smooth Human bodies.

"You say you know why Shan'Kaar's holding this hearing?" she asked when she was settled.

"Yes, Director." Picard stepped forward, holding out a large notepadd. She took it from him. On it, she saw the same recordings of Brahga's death that Sorse had shown her and Shan'Kaar the day before. "on the top are the recordings of mine and Doctor Crusher's physiological responses, as recorded by Brahga's device. On the bottom are Brahga's." The Human pointed out the details.

"I know, I've seen this already, Captain."

"Look at Brahga's." Floron's eyes returned to the screen. Blue spikes and scattered dots showed the Humans' activity. It was weakly mirrored in pale yellow slopes and dots lined up on the shallow hills, except for the series of spikes at the end that marked the throes of Brahga's death. "Don't you think that Brahga should have had a stronger reaction to what he was listening to?"

Floron sat up, splashing on Picard's pant legs. She keyed up more information that showed how Brahga had persistently turned up the device's amplifier until it was at its maximum, but there was no physical response in the Ferengi from the increased input.

"This thing might not have recorded everything," she said cautiously.

Doctor Crusher shook her head. "Humans and Ferengi are different, but not that different. If Brahga had experienced any kind of sexual arousal, it would have shown up there." Floron looked at her, obviously waiting for her to say more. "I'd say he was impotent."

"That slithering, mud sucking, hairless head!" Floron exclaimed, forgetting that she'd been avoiding that particular derogatory for two days now. All three of her visitors backed away quickly from the splashed water. "You heard it, Sorse! Shan'Kaar's blackmailing Brahnon!" she yelled, not only angry at her superior, but now apparently excited, exultant. "If it gets out that Brahnon's father was impotent, it will _ruin_ him! The other Ferengi won't _touch_ anything he does! He won't be able to borrow money or trade _ever_ again! The stigma will follow Brahnon to his own death! You heard it Sorse! Shan'Kaar _must_ be blackmailing him!"

"The evidence is still circumstantial," the inspector calmly responded.

"Don't give me that, Sorse! It's the only reason why Shan'Kaar would demand this hearing!" The water sloshed in the bath as she bellowed. "He _must_ be threatening Brahnon with it! Those Ferengi treat this kind of thing like it's a contagious disease _and_ they think it's hereditary! They measure their own worth by the length and breath of their members and their ears and now we know that Brahga didn't have one of them! And his _son_ might as well cut all three of them off now, for all the good they'll do him!"

Bing-bong.

"What is it?" Floron demanded, standing naked, water dripping from her body ridges back to the knee-deep bath. A synthesized voice announced a communication from Minister Moor Shan'Kaar.

"Out!" the director ordered, pointing toward the door. Her surprised guests hastily retreated. Dropping one's pants and breaking wind at a dinner party would have been considered significantly less rude to a Human than ordering guests out of the bathroom would be to a Denneezian. At least without a good reason. And Denneezians dropped their pants at parties often; it was sometimes required.

Sorse, a vigilantly polite Vulcan, closed the door behind them so they couldn't listen in, though they could hear the sound of the voices.

"I believe she took that quite well," Sorse told them, his thick gray hair and eyebrows serenely combed and tidy. Then he cleared his throat. Again. Crusher, who had been listening to the Vulcan's congestion for the past half hour made him an offer that she felt sure he wouldn't refuse this time.

"You have a Vulcan doctor aboard your ship?" Sorse asked, his eyebrows rising. Crusher knew she had him, and his breathing problem, hooked. Picard ignored the conversation about bronchitis and humidity and waited for Floron to finish. The voices stopped. Wet feet slapped on the floor and then the door was dragged aside, Floron, wrapping a damp towel about her, faced them. She was positively elated and thankfully a little calmer.

"That was Shan'Kaar. He wants to cancel the hearing,"she practically sang. "He said the negotiation's over and that Brahnon has agreed to take a _third_ of his fee for his cargo," she announced gleefully. "I told him he couldn't. He's gone too far this time."

"You're going to have the hearing?" Picard asked.

"We don't have to go over any of the specifics," Floron reassured, holding her hands up to him. "Just a nice simple statement of the circumstances. Brahga's condition. Brahnon giving up the negotiation suddenly, taking a third of the original fee. It's perfect." She talked faster as she went, not giving the captain a chance to respond. "We hardly have to mention your Midday at all."

"What about Brahnon?" Crusher asked, stepping forward. "I thought this was supposed to ruin him."

"He can console himself with all of Shan'Kaar's possessions. That's what that bottom scum will have to forfeit for this. Don't tell me blackmail isn't penalized in the Federation; I know it is." She turned back to Sorse, her mind focussing on her plans. "Get that fossilized lung sucker Vorix; I don't want Shan'Kaar cancelling that hearing. I'll call my _own_ hearing if I have to."

* * *

**ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

Picard and Crusher entered the hearing room. It was large and airy with a high, beamed ceiling and skylights that showed a clear, blue sky. The humidity was stifling and the two Humans were already covered with a thin film of sweat. Beads of it formed on the top of Picard's scalp and Crusher's bangs were sticking to her forehead. A group of Ferengi huddled at one end of the room. At the sight of Picard their eyes immediately fixed on him.

The two went to the other end of the room where Commander Riker and Counselor Troi were waiting for them. Shan'Kaar and Floron had not yet arrived. They exchanged greetings, but there wasn't much discussion.

They had been in communication with the ship all morning; Riker and Troi knew all the details. Picard regretted the ship's gossip that would spring from the record of the previous day's lovemaking-particularly that they were at it for over an hour-but he couldn't see how it could be avoided. Riker knew. Troi knew. The captain was being detained against his will, so Lieutenant Worf would have demanded to be told. Crusher's tricorder had been sent back to the ship; Data had probably seen it. And maybe some of Crusher's medical stall. Lieutenant Commander LaForge had probably looked at it, too, for purely technical reasons, of course. None of the senior officers gossiped, but things seemed to get around the ship anyway. Inspector Sorse had been to the _Enterprise_ that morning, getting his chronic congestion looked at by Doctor Selar, who might know by now, too.

_No,_ Picard reconsidered. _Vulcans don't gossip._

Riker nodded toward Picard; his expression was a bit more amused than the captain liked. "I see you have some admirers," Riker commented. The Ferengi were still staring at the captain. Particularly, they were staring at his crotch. The Ferengi knew.

Picard frowned and his first officer's smile vanished. There was more than a hint of admiration in Riker's and the Ferengis' looks, but that offended Picard. It was absolutely nobody else's business how he conducted himself in private. Troi kept her eyes on the Ferengi. Crusher cast one glance at him, and at his trousers, and then away. She looked pleased. The Ferengi weren't looking at her at all.

Floron and Shan'Kaar entered, followed by Inspector Sorse and a knot of Denneezians. Brahnon flew to Shan'Kaar, but the Denneezian brushed him off and a husky secretary blocked any further attempts.

A line of caterers entered from another door. Breakfast. Fruits and fish and fungus, and a huge, heated vat of a pale, grainy porridge that seemed to be served as the universal starch on Denneez. Picard had found it perfectly tasteless and vile, but it came with almost every meal on the planet.

Everyone served themselves from the buffet and took seats in high hammock-seat chairs with their plates. Along with the Starfleet officers and the Ferengi crew, there was a substantial crowd of interested Denneezians. Some of them were dressed in dignified, pleated jackets, but more of them were casually dressed in loose picture-shirts.

There was one table to sit at and only Sorse, Floron, Shan'Kaar and Brahnon sat there. They were the principle parties. Everyone else sat in chairs, facing the head table. Because they were in a meeting hall that was designed to hold large crowds if necessary, there weren't any bathroom fixtures, except for a few water fountains by the exits. No room for the plumbing.

After everyone had eaten their fill, Floron opened the hearing cheerfully. In sparkling white shirt and crisp jacket, Shan'Kaar impatiently sat through it, tapping on the table. Floron didn't go beyond the term "extended lascivious activity" to describe the Humans' lovemaking. But at the mention of it, eight pairs of Ferengi eyes fixed on Picard's lower quarters again. Brahnon must have told them something about the circumstances of his father's death. The new daimon loosened the high collar of his shirt as he stared along with his associates. Picard crossed his legs and balanced his near empty plate on his knee.

Floron also glossed over Brahga's physical condition at the time of death, but Brahnon's nervousness increased enough for some of the other Ferengi to turn away from their awe of Picard to wonder at their companion.

Picard wasn't required to say anything at all until Floron asked for his appraisal of the mediation. Picard put his plate on his seat and stood. The Ferengi stared. The crowd in the room muttered, obviously wanting to be informed about what everyone was looking at.

Shan'Kaar, teeth bared in displeasure, tried several times to declare closure, but Floron's early morning calls to every enemy and former sex partner of Shan'Kaar's in the Denneezian ministries had given her the sole authority to end the hearing.

She went over the mediation in exact detail. She asked Crusher about the cargo. She asked Troi about the mediation. She brought in people whom Picard had never heard of including the original farmers who had first proposed growing cocoa on Denneez. The Starfleet people were all sweaty and weary long before it was over, the red and blue parts of their uniforms darkened with sweat near their collars and down their backs. Troi's long dark curls wilted.

Things didn't start getting interesting until Floron announced the agreed-upon fee.

"What!" ". . . this is unacceptable . . . !" "Your father would never have agreed . . . !"

The Ferengi buzzed up from their seats, outraged. Brahnon tried to quell their tide of discontent, but they swept over him. It was Floron who rescued him from the barrage, after a fashion.

"There couldn't possibly be a reason for Brahnon agreeing to those terms-" Florin shouted, turning her back on the tall minister. Baring his teeth, Shan'Kaar raised his arm, obviously intending to bring his fist down on the director's unprotected head.

Everyone leaped to their feet, Picard and Riker lunging forward, but the Vulcan standing behind Shan'Kaar aborted the minister's attack. Floron turned, just in time to see Sorse lower Shan'Kaar, by the neck, to the table. The Starfleet officers and the gathered Denneezians looked down at him. Floron looked annoyed and Sorse raised a puzzled eyebrow at her.

"Well, that's just great." She threw her hands up. Even the frenzied Ferengi had stopped their furious arguing to see. "How am I suppose to enjoy this now with him like that?"

* * *

**ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

Hours later, Picard and Crusher were allowed to return to the ship. Along with them came Inspector Sorse.

"Doctor Selar recommended that I leave Denneez; my tolerance for the atmosphere was much lower than I'd anticipated. Thank you for waiting for me to conclude my affairs," Sorse said to the captain and doctor as they strolled down a pleasantly cool-feeling corridor. The Vulcan carried with him a travel bag slung over his shoulder. Other than that, and the clothes he wore he had no other possessions. At least none that he wished to take with him.

"We come to serve, Inspector," Picard politely responded. Doctor Selar had said that Sorse's congestion wouldn't become a serious problem for months, but it was within the captain's discretion to take him on as a passenger for reasons of hardship. "I must confess I was surprised that you had taken residence on Denneez where so much of the planet is so humid." The three of them entered a turbolift.

"It is I who must confess. It was my profession that led me to Denneez. The subtle and complex interactions among the different species in the Federation fascinate me, particularly when they lose their balance. I even once considered a career in Starfleet in my younger years," Sorse told the two officers. "But there is a bit more travelling attached to it than I care for. And I prefer my mysteries to be of a more personal and ordinary variety."

"I see," Picard nodded. He doubted that Sorse would have found much intrigue on his logically civilized homeworld. The lift stopped and they exited into a section of Sickbay. Sorse continued.

"Many planets employ non-natives to handle civil off-worlder problems. Since the trade agreements with the Federation were formalized, the Denneezians have actively encouraged off-worlders to come to their planet, to encourage commerce. I have heard optimistic projections that Denneez would be actively competing with Risa for interstellar traffic."

"Really?" Picard commented cynically. Doctor Crusher refrained from any verbal sounds of amusement. "I think they might find that they need to adjust some of the accommodations before that's likely to happen."

"I would tend to agree. Risa and Denneez are much too different to be compared in such a way. But I have seen many come and return to Denneez specifically for it's aesthetic pleasures."

They were met by Doctor Selar. The two Vulcans nodded toward each other.

"Have you been assigned quarters?" Selar asked without prelude.

"No."

Selar looked to the captain. "Oh, by all means, Doctor, please." He nodded to Selar and gestured for her to attend to Sorse's accommodations.

"He travels light," Crusher said as the two disappeared around a corner.

"He's an adherent of the T'tjasi Vulcan philosophy. It maintains that a cluttered life leads to cluttered logic. It's a pity he doesn't like space travel. He'd be perfect for Starfleet."

"Uh, Doctor?" They turned to find Nurse Ogawa holding a notepadd. "Welcome back, Doctor," she said, smiling as she handed over a two day backlog of Sickbay activity reports. Crusher, who'd had almost nothing to occupy her except a surly ship captain during her enforced stay on Denneez, thanked her assistant for it. Ogawa glanced at Picard, as if she'd just remembered that she'd neglected to welcome him back as well. Picard looked back.

Ogawa was blushing at him. She lowered her eyes and then turned back toward the doctor.

_Oh, no._ It _was_ all over the ship. He knew he would be staring down a lot of blushing, gossiping crew members for days. Starting with the bridge.

"If you'll excuse me, Doctor, I have a lot work to do, myself." He left.

**

* * *

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo**

* * *

The captain's quarters were dark. The only light came from the blue panels by the windows.

"Ummmm, ooo-aaahhh."

"Aha!" Beverly Crusher announced, rising up. Jean-Luc Picard, underneath her on the bed, stared up at her bluish silhouette.

"What?" he asked, breathless and completely surprised.

"You made a noise," she told him.

"What?" he asked. They were rather . . . heavily involved, and she had just stopped _everything_, to suddenly announce to him that he had made a noise.

"You . . . made . . . a noise," Her voice dropped to a seductive whisper. _Denneez_, he realized. _I told her she was noisy. _They had left that planet lightyears behind them. She had been waiting all that time, to pounce on him with this. She lowered herself again and her hips shifted.

"Uuuuhhh." His grasp tightened on her again. The ends of her hair tickled his chest.

"Mmmmmm, say that again, Jean-Luc."

**

* * *

* * *The End * * ***

**

* * *

Note:** This story was written by me and first printed (under the name 'Anne Davenport') in 1994, in _Involution_ 6, a fanzine back in the hard-copy and snail-mail days of fan-fiction, before the internet really took off.

**Disclaimer:** All Trek characters and the universe belong to Paramount; I'm just playing in that sandbox.


End file.
